from the editor's table
by wild wolf free17
Summary: A collection of various book fics including Tir Alainn, The Witches of Eileanan, Transformation, Tracks, The Aspern Papers, Athanor novels and Counterfeit Son. up now: Counterfeit Son/Inception
1. Tir Alainn

**Title**: Do No Harm

**Fandom**: _Tir Alainn Trilogy_

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for The House of Gaian

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 440

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

**_She is justice… and she is vengeance._**

o0o

_Do no harm. Never strike first._ The creed of her kind, woven into her soul since before memory, six words that defined her every action.

_Do no harm. Never strike first_—deep inside, wired into her being, six words formed her. _Do no harm. Never strike first. _

Few could compete with her. Few could equal her. None surpassed her.

A handful of Crones in the Mother's Hills. Perhaps a dash of forgotten witches on the edge of the world.

_Do no harm. Never strike first. _

She could form storms that would flood the world. She could call down mountains and summon the sea. She could burn entire forests and towns, shatter the earth as men hurried to and fro. She could pull air from lungs and leave them gasping for breath. She could form bridges from moonlight and will alone.

_Do no harm. Never strike first. _

She never harmed on purpose. She never struck first.

Even those that loved her feared her. The power hummed just underneath her skin, always seeking release. The world—fire, earth, air, water—sang to her, listened for her, always willing to do as she asked.

Ask. She danced for them, for the Mother, asking—not commanding.

_Do no harm. Never strike first. _

And then she ascended. Became the Huntress. **The** Lady of the Moon. The Queen of the Witches.

The world trembled before her. She danced and others joined—and they were scared of her, terrified of the power humming in her blood, singing in the wind.

The Crones met her eyes; her sister stood beside her.

_Do no harm. Never strike first. _

Justice… vengeance.

A gentle touch on her shoulder; a murmur in the wind.

The Hunter ruled. The Huntress led.

Neither could afford hesitation. Neither could tremble beneath the load.

_Do no harm. Never strike first. _

She had to protect her kind, and innocents in the way of the Black Coats. She had to end it. She and the Hunter had to take a stand and keep such atrocities from ever happening again.

_Do no harm. Never strike first. _

But harm had already been done, and this was only striking back.

Her sister beside her, the Huntress led.

_Do no harm. _The earth shifted beneath her feet. _Never strike first._ The wind swirled around her. _Do no harm_. Fire danced in her eyes. _Never strike first_. Water fell from the sky.

Justice. Justice for those slain and maimed by petty fear and grudges. Vengeance. Vengeance for those whose light waned because of hate.

_Do no harm. _

The Huntress changed form and howled.


	2. The Witches of Eileanan

**Title**: Dragon Wind

**Fandom**: _The Witches of Eileanan _series

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for the series

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 185

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

In dreams she flies, her wings slicing the air. The wind howls around her, caressing her; her wing-beat is strong and sure.

She has only worn that shape once, on a terrible eve of death and blood. It took such power she thought she'd rip apart. Only in her dreams has she worn it since, though each day the longing grows.

It was the perfect body, felt so right—but the true dragons warned her from ever wearing it again. She had not been born a dragon, so their skin was not for her, and such disrespect could not be tolerated. They understood needing the body for war—but never again. The knowledge she gleaned while in that form still fills her; the secrets of the future passed in front of her eyes.

In dreams, night after night, she soars through the skin in the greatest shape she's ever worn, awaiting the moment she can shift dragon again.

It will be her final act, but she cannot regret it at all. Her death will come in dragon claw and fire, and it will be relief.


	3. Transformation

**Title**: as small as a world and as large as alone

**Fandom**: _Transformation_ by Carol Berg

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from e.e. cummings

**Warnings**: takes place early in the book

**Pairings**: mild slash

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

It was a slow change, his evolution, very gradual. The beginning was quite easy to pinpoint, though: purchasing the Ezzarian slave. He explained it away as needing a scribe, but he hadn't intended to buy anyone that day. He'd just wanted to get outside, and looking at potential buys was a good, foolproof excuse.

Most slaves, by the time Aleksander saw them, were broken, fawning creatures. The Ezzarian had spirit still, he could see it. Fearless. Older than Aleksander desired, but strong. Scarred all over; nothing refined about him at all. But he did not fawn or simper; he did as ordered quietly with no fuss, and Aleksander watched, wondering what so caught his fancy that he'd punished Vanye so well,

It was undeniable, though, and as the days turned to weeks, he realized that he'd grown attached. Which would just not do at all, for Derzhi warriors feel nothing beyond family bonds.

He continued watching, waiting to act, to find any reason to be rid of the Ezzarian, and then found that he didn't want to act at all. Seyonne was his, now. His.

And that was when he discovered he had changed... and found that he liked it.


	4. Tracks

**Title**: while the spirit wings away

**Fandom**: _Tracks_ by Louise Erdrich

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Browning.

**Warnings**: takes place during chapters 6-7

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 167

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Her faith in herself died with her second baby, and with that faith went her power. She had always walked a different road, unknowable, full of power and wonder. She had never feared the path until the way left her with the breath of her child.

The knowledge abandoned her; her dreams began to lie. Her family looked at her with pity and sorrow where once there had been awe and fear.

She was broken. She could not let Lulu out of her sight. She listened, as she always had, but the voices only jeered instead of singing.

Once, she had summoned a ferocious storm for vengeance. Now, she could only chase her daughter and whisper useless words, mute to the power she once commanded. She knew the way back: reclaim her faith in herself.

But the baby died. The baby died and the path was closed—and yet, in the dark of night, through the trees, on the shores of the lake, the voices still screamed.


	5. The Aspern Papers

**Title**: What is to give light must endure burning

**Fandom**: _The Aspern Papers_

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Viktor Frank

**Warnings**: spoilers for book

**Pairings**: mentions of het

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 355

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

She waits until midnight and then she goes to her aunt's room. She removes the sheaf of papers from its hiding spot, studying each piece for a moment. She does not read them, just looks long enough to ascertain what it is—a poem, a love letter, an angry admonition, a plea for absolution. So many repeated. Each in that hand she recognizes as her aunt's once-beloved Jeffrey Aspern.

Her aunt would have commanded her to destroy these documents, had she been able. Such things are private, between a man and a woman, between a poet and his muse. Not for the eyes of everyone, for public view.

But she would have given them to _him_, that scoundrel who killed her aunt. Had he said yes, agreed to her hinted proposal—she would have handed over the last hidden part of her aunt's privacy for grudgingly-given, false affection.

Her aunt is dead. Tina feared her, but never doubted her love. Now, after a long life, Tina is alone. Every decision from here-on-out is her own. No demands, no commands. Her choices, her actions.

She holds in her hand papers a man would steal in the night, would lie and cheat to possess, would frighten an old woman to death for the possibility of touching them.

Her aunt would have said to destroy them, the last link to the poet she loved. Tina takes the bundle to the kitchen and separates the papers on the counter by type: love letter, angry note, poem, plea for pardon. Over two dozen, precious and unique, each addressed to Juliana. Poems for her eyes alone, sonnets, free-verse. Priceless.

One by one, Tina holds them over a candle till they catch fire and then lets them fall into an empty basin.

She does not burn them for her aunt, or out of anger or grief or despair. She burns them simply because they are a private matter and their intended audience can no longer read them.

(And if she feels a small burst of vindictive joy at the dumbstruck, horror-filled look on _his_ face—well, that is a private matter, too.)


	6. Athanor

**Title**: brother of the sea

**Fandom**: Athanor novels (Changer/Legends Walking)

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for the books

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**:

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Any/+Any, standing in the ocean looking up at the stars

* * *

"Brother," calls the sea king. "Welcome home."

Changer nods, becoming his first shape; his brother follows swiftly, and they float together, the oldest of all living things, wearing bodies that no one has seen in more millennia than humans can begin to comprehend.

"How is the child?" the sea king asks.

Changer smiles, answering, "She is stronger by the day. If she learns patience, she might one day rival us in age."

Laughing, the sea king dives. "No one shall ever rival us, brother!" he calls. Changer rushes in his wake and they race from one ocean to another, all of the king's subjects hurrying from their path.

Finally, they rest, tangled together and staring at the sky.

"Do you think someday we'll walk amongst the stars?" Changer asks. "Like the gods humanity once believed us to be?"

"You might," his brother replies quietly. "You left the water for the land. I suppose you might yet leave the land for the stars. But I will not, brother." Closing his eyes, the sea king listens to his realm, to the depths and the shallows, to the roar that echoes in his soul and responds to his wishes. "I am the ocean. Here I was born and here I shall die, if that day ever dawns."

Changer does not reply except to twine closer, listening to the call of the ocean his brother has never ignored.

He will return to land soon enough, to his daughter and the Accord. But for now he is simply _brother_ and he is home.


	7. Counterfeit Son Inception

**Title**: the glint of light on broken glass

**Fandom**: _Inception/Counterfeit Son_

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for Counterfeit Son; implied child abuse/sexual abuse

**Pairings**: implied Arthur/Eames

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1570

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: thanks to nevcolleil for convincing me to post

**More notes**: knowledge of _Counterfeit Son_'s canon would be helpful but isn't necessary; this can be read as an outside pov on Arthur's backstory

* * *

Diana wasn't surprised that Neil went far away for college. He was smothered at home, and four years of so-called normalcy couldn't make up for six years in Hell. He still flinched from Dad sometimes, and he was too still and too quiet. With them, Diana knew, with Mom and Dad and Stevie and Diana herself, he was always Cameron-as-Neil. In his mind, he was still Cameron pretending to be Neil, and it didn't matter that all the tests said he was Neil, had always been Neil, that Dad knew him from the moment he saw Neil in the hospital bed.

He still felt like Cameron, trying to survive.

Diana blamed Simmons for that. She would never forgive him for terrifying Neil just after Miller's death. She saw the scars on her brother's skin and the ones on his psyche, and hacked what she could about those horrible years he was Cameron. And Simmons—he was supposed to be a cop and help victims, and instead he persecuted a little boy whose only crime was surviving.

Diana had to help Neil with his homework those first few months of school. She was actually glad he'd been put in the same grade as her—it meant she could keep an eye on him, make sure nobody bothered him. She beat up three boys in the first two months, and Neil didn't thank her, but he did ask Dad for self-defense lessons.

Neil quickly caught up with and soon surpassed Diana's GPA. They graduated together and most people thought they were twins, Neil and Diana Lacey. And Diana went to a college only an hour away, while Neil went across the country, and then he joined the army, and he hardly ever came home.

Diana understood, she really did. Neil spent six terrible years as Cameron, and he still didn't feel like he'd escaped. He sent them all postcards, a few emails, and even a couple handwritten letters.

And he called Diana, the night he left the army, and he said, "I killed four men." Diana was sure he'd killed men before, but something was different. Something had changed in his voice.

She breathed quietly into the phone and she asked, "Did they deserve it?"

"Yes," her big brother said, and hung up.

o0o

Diana moved back home, to an apartment in town, and went to work at the museum with Mom. Stevie designed computer games, Dad retired, and Neil traveled the world, doing _something_.

Mom and Dad, and even Stevie, thought he was working for the government, that he was a spook. Diana knew better, but she never asked and she never told.

And then two men grabbed her on the way home from work and took her to her old house, where her parents still lived. And they had Stevie, and three more goons, and they tied Diana and her family up, and they told Diana to cry while one of them called Neil on speakerphone.

"We found out your secret," he said into the phone. "Listen."

Instead of breaking down like Mom or demanding answers like Dad and Stevie, Diana shouted, "Stay away! Stay free!"

The big one slapped her. And they all heard Neil say, "You're dead, Cooper."

Cooper laughed and flipped the phone shut.

o0o

The five goons talked amongst themselves, and Dad calmed Mom down, and Stevie tried to communicate a plan to Diana with his eyes after the big guy slapped him for talking.

Hours passed. Diana knew Neil spent most of his time in Europe, so it might be awhile before he showed up, if he was going to at all.

She felt guilty for that that immediately. Neil had almost died saving Stevie after barely a week of being Neil again. Of course he'd come for them now.

At dawn, two of the goons collapsed simultaneously, blood and guts exploding out of them. The other two and Cooper separated, Cooper shouting, "Come out where I can see you, Arthur!"

Another goon went down, then the other, and only Cooper remained. He finally panicked, and Mom was crying and Dad praying and Stevie staring with wide eyes.

Diana was the only one who saw Neil stalk in, a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. "I warned you, Cooper," he said, and threw the knife.

Cooper died and Mom sobbed louder. Neil quickly knelt by Diana and pulled another knife to saw through the rope. He gave her the blade to deal with Stevie and materialized a set of lockpicks for their parents' cuffs.

"I'll deal with the mess," a British voice said, and Diana looked up with a gasp. The man—Neil's height but broader—nodded to her, but his eyes stayed on Neil. "You help your family, darling. I can dispose of the waste."

"Thank you, Mr. Eames," Neil said, and sank back on his haunches to look at Mom with hesitant eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly as Dad and Stevie stretched out the kinks in their arms and spines, and Diana restrained herself from hugging the life out of them all. There'd be time for that later.

She ignored Mr. Eames with a garbage bag, to focus on Mom, her tearstained face and red eyes, and the bruises and blood where she'd fought the cuffs.

"I'm sorry," Neil said again. "Mom, please."

Mom took a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and threw her arms around Neil.

"Neil," she said. "Neil, oh my baby."

Diana took that as her cue and hugged Neil and Mom both, then Dad hugged them all while Stevie asked Mr. Eames if he needed help.

"No, thank you," Mr. Eames replied. "Your brother would beat me bloody if I let you touch a body."

"Here," Neil said, pressing a note into Dad's hands. "Take them here. I'll come tomorrow and I'll explain. Everything will be taken care of, I promise." He paused, looking at them. "I'm sorry I keep ruining your lives."

"Oh, Neil," Dad said, and pulled him in for another hug.

o0o

Diana and Stevie ran upstairs to pack a quick bag for their parents. When they got back, all but two bodies had vanished into garbage bags. Neil asked Mr. Eames a question in a language Diana didn't know and Mr. Eames nodded.

Neil turned to Dad. "Follow those instructions. A quick family getaway. Everything will be taken care of, and it'll be like this never happened."

Stevie said, "You won't show up, will you." Neil ducked his head, and Stevie continued, voice bitter, "You'll just vanish again, send postcards and emails when you remember. You won't tell us why they called you Arthur or kidnapped us."

"They went after you because of me," Neil said quietly. "They know me as Arthur because that's the name I work under."

Neil looked at Diana, at Mom and Dad, then back at Stevie. "And no," he added. "I wasn't going to meet you there. I've made a deal with someone to erase all records of me, to destroy all connections to you, so no one else will come after you again." He glanced at Mr. Eames, and finished, "Neil Lacey will have never existed."

Diana yelled, "No!" She strode forward and grabbed Neil's hand, pulling him in close. "I don't want to lose you again, Neil."

He sighed, lifting their clasped hands. "It's the only way you'll be safe," he said, and pulled her in for a hug, then Mom, Dad, and Stevie, and then he backed away.

Mr. Eames leaned in and whispered, so quietly Diana barely heard it, "Arthur, are you sure?"

"Maybe in a few years," Neil said, then again, helplessly, "I'm _sorry_."

Diana stared at him for a long moment, trying to memorize his face. A decade since she last saw him, a few months before he left the army, and nobody had ever gotten the full story on that. He looked older, of course, but leaner and harder, too. Dressed in a suit, like Dad when he still went to court, except with a few drops of blood dotting him.

"You're not a spook," Diana said softly.

Neil smiled and shook his head.

"I'll see you later, son," Dad said, guiding Mom out. Stevie followed, not looking at Neil.

"If you don't visit," Diana told her big brother, "I'll track you down somehow."

Neil kissed her forehead and said, "I promise."

Diana noticed that he didn't say what he promised, but she left anyway, meeting her parents and kid brother in the driveway.

o0o

The instructions sent them to a nice hotel, telling them what name to use. They spent a week there, trying to calm down and forget. No authorities ever called about the kidnapping or the bodies, and when they went home, there was no evidence at all.

A month after, Diana received a postcard, signed _Neil&E_.

_I'll be home on my birthday_, Neil wrote. _See you then_.

But he didn't show up on his birthday. Instead he knocked on Diana's door on the anniversary of the day he saved Stevie and remembered who he truly was.

"Neil," she said, pulling him close and trying not to cry.

Mr. Eames stood to the side quietly, waiting with a smile, and he slipped his hand into Neil's, lifting them both to kiss Neil's knuckles.

"Shall we, then?" Mr. Eames asked. "I hear there's a birthday celebration waiting."

"Yeah," Diana said, wiping her eyes. "Let's go."


	8. Counterfeit Son

**Title**: tell my mother, tell my father, I've done the best I can

**Fandom**: Counterfeit Son

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Shinedown

**Warnings**: mentions of past child abuse/non-con

**Pairings**: Pop/Cameron

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**:145

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: any, any, counterfeit soul

* * *

He's dreaming about the basement again. About Pop, and the boys, and the blood, and being pressed into the mattress, about never saying no.

(He did say no, he thinks. Maybe. When he was Neil, but Cameron... Cameron was a good boy. Cameron was a survivor. Cameron never said no.)

Cameron's dreams, here in Neil's room. Sharing with Stevie, safe in Mom and Dad's house. Pop isn't here. Cougar isn't here. Just Neil, and Stevie, and Mom and Dad, and Diana.

But in the dream, he's Cameron. The second Cameron, the better Cameron, the Cameron who survived. Pop's in the dream, and he's angry, and he's hitting Cameron, spitting filth, yelling things Neil knows are lies, but he's not Neil in the dream. He's just Cameron. Pop's son.

He is Pop's. And Cameron is a good son, who never says no.

Neil wakes screaming no.


	9. Counterfeit Son Inception 2

**Title**: there is nothing I have buried that can die

**Fandom**: _Inception/Counterfeit Son_

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Adrienne Rich

**Warnings**: spoilers for film mentions of child abuse, sexual abuse, and death; disturbing imagery

**Pairings**: pre-Eames/Arthur, remembered Pop/Cameron

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 1890

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: mossy

**Notes**: knowledge of _Counterfeit Son_ is not required to understand the story

* * *

Something went wrong on a training-run: the timer ran out and the kick woke them all but Arthur.

Cobb was back for his first job since the Fischer thing; Ariadne had made a beautiful palace, her first job since graduating; and Yusuf had left Mombasa again, as a favor to Eames, with the understanding that he would tell Eames about _any_ shady deals.

And Eames had taken the job for Arthur. A forger wasn't needed, but Arthur had wanted someone he trusted at his back. He hadn't admitted to anything so flighty as a bad 'feeling' about the job, but he was uneasy.

And now they'd all woken up—except Arthur.

Eames wanted to kill something. He settled for slamming Cobb into the wall; they'd been the pair on the second level. "What happened down there?" he demanded and Cobb flinched.

"I don't know!" he said. "I've never seen anything like it, Eames." He grabbed at Eames' hands and Eames tightened his grip on Cobb's shoulders.

Yusuf stayed out of reach and Ariadne said, "Eames!"

"Yusuf," Eames growled, "it was normal _somnacin_, yes?"

"I swear," Yusuf promised. "No tricks, nothing new. A normal dose."

"So then, Cobb," he said, shoving Cobb harder into the wall, "tell me _what happened_."

Cob shuddered. "A house just appeared. And some trees. The palace faded out and—" He paled. "And there were kids. Some were skeletons, and fuck, fuck—" Closing his eyes, he swallowed noisily. "He told me he'd be right behind me. He went in the house."

Eames loosened his grip. He let go and turned away, hurrying to Arthur's table. Ariadne's blueprints were spread out over Arthur's research and he shoved them aside.

"Yusuf," he ordered, "check Arthur." He flipped through Arthur's notes, looking for anything that might—

There. The mark had been abused as a child. His honorary uncle, his father's best friend. At least a year till his sister told her favorite teacher, and the man… well, he didn't go to jail. Someone killed him and the police didn't try too hard to solve that case.

Shit. Arthur had said the mark had an unhappy childhood, but no wonder he wanted someone he trusted at his back.

"What is it?" Ariadne asked.

Eames ignored her. He glared at Cobb. "You didn't recognize the house?"

Cob shook his head.

Eames paused. Arthur wouldn't have said anything. Mal knew… but she wouldn't have told Cobb without Arthur's permission.

"Fuck," he muttered.

He stalked back to the PASIV and told Yusuf, "Send me back under."

"Eames," Cobb said. "Until we know what went wrong—"

"Yusuf!" Eames ordered. Yusuf nodded and hurried over.

"Eames," Ariadne tried. "Please, wait until I—"

But he was already under again.

o0o

Arthur's mind was familiar. Their training ground was a deadly place, the hardest Eames had ever visited. Arthur's projections were vicious and clever, and Eames had never once been able to hide from them for more than ten minutes.

Until he met Arthur, Eames had thought himself the most dangerous man in the illicit dreamsharing community.

But now in Arthur's dream, there were no projections. There was an old rundown house, backed into a copse of dying trees, and a shabby collection of graves in the yard.

"Bloody hell, darling," Eames muttered.

Nothing for it, though. He walked down the dirt path between the graves, knocked on the rotten door, and waited.

o0o

Eames would never be sure exactly what happened. Arthur was truly an expert in compartmentalization, he had never once talked about those years, and the mark's history had brought it all up again…

A boy answered the door. He said, "Pop isn't home. I'm not supposed to let people in."

Eames smiled at him. "Well then, how about we have a walkabout?" The kid blinked. "I'm new to town, you see. I'm the house just beyond those trees." He nodded to the south and the kid looked over.

"I—I guess so," he stammered. "Pop says we should be neighborly."

_Yes_, Eames supposed. _People don't usually wonder what good neighbors have to hide_.

"Maybe we can get hot dogs," Eames suggested, leading the way down the path. "I'm Eames."

"Ca-Cameron," the kid said. "And I like hot dogs."

o0o

He wandered with the kid, drawing him out. Cameron liked boats and history. He also knew everything there was to know about forest ecology. When he got excited, he forgot to limp and hold his ribs.

"Well," Eames finally said. "I'll let you get home before Pop, yeah? I'll be around later to introduce myself to him."

Cameron held out a hand. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Eames."

Eames solemnly shook his hand. "You, too, Cameron."

o0o

His house to the south beyond the trees looked much like his hated childhood home. He ignored all the memories and went straight to the master bedroom, where his PASIV waited. He sent himself under again.

o0o

He woke in front of Cameron's house, this time without the graveyard. There were finally projections, though—the ones Cobb described, boys with rotting skin or very little skin at all. They all stared at him for a moment before visibly dismissing him.

All the ones still recognizable looked shockingly similar, like Cameron in the first dream. The smallest skeleton was the only one to walk over to him. "Look out for Pop," the skeleton said. "He's angry."

"What's your name?" Eames asked softly. On closer inspection, this little talkative skeleton-boy was the only one with no skin at all. "You were the first," Eames said, feeling sick.

"I'm Cameron," he replied. "The first Cameron." He sounded young, maybe seven years old. "I wasn't strong enough," he added sadly. "So Pop got a second Cameron, one that lasted." Eames closed his eyes, but Arthur wanted him to know this (or maybe, Arthur couldn't keep it in anymore), so Cameron continued, "The second Cameron was Cameron for longer than I lived. Isn't that funny?"

"Yeah," Eames said. "Do you know where the second Cameron is right now?"

All the projections pointed to the house.

"Of course," Eames said. "Fuck."

o0o

The projections watched him, but none approached as he walked up to the house. Most of them backed away. He ignored them as he knocked on the door, counting to twenty before knocking again.

He hoped Cameron would answer, but instead an average-looking man swung it open as he got to forty. Eames saw everything in a glance—blood beneath his nails and dotting his clothes, innocent _I'm just a normal man_ smile on his face, nothing noticeable or screaming _I'm evil and like to torture little boys_. Nothing except the blood.

"Can I help you?" the projection asked. "I'm in the middle of a project."

_A project_, Eames thought. _You fucker_.

Eames' favorite knife was in hand, blade shiny and sharp, and the projection's throat gaped open. None of the boys made a move as he gurgled and fell. Eames stepped over him, calling, "Cameron? Cameron, you alright?"

No answer, but the house had a single hall. He followed it to a stairway going down. A locked door proved no hardship, and a boy no more than fourteen, if that, huddled in the corner. He stared at Eames with wary eyes, and tried to squeeze into the wall when Eames stepped closer. Eames knelt down and softly said, "You know me, Cameron. Don't you? We met earlier."

"Are you one'a Pop's friends?" Cameron asked.

"No," he replied. "In fact, I killed Pop. And I'll kill 'im again, if I must. He's a monster."

Another projection of Pop stormed down the stairs, roaring filth and lies. Eames stood, turned, and emptied an entire clip of bullets into the bastard's head and neck.

Cameron gaped as Eames turned back to him. "You… you killed him," the boy whispered. He unfolded and leaned forward to rest on his knees. "You killed him!"

He looked at the body, then Eames, with wide, awe-filled eyes. He stood and took a trembling step forward. Eames caught him as he wavered, and Cameron smiled up at him.

"I know you," Cameron said.

"Yes," Eames said. "You do." He helped Cameron around the body and up the stairs and down the hall and out the door. None of the projections waited and the sky was completely clear.

Eames looked at Cameron and saw Arthur in his sharpest suit, smiling the smallest, most sincere smile Eames had ever seen on his face.

"You followed me down," he said. "And you killed Pop."

"Twice, even," Eames told him.

Arthur chuckled, and it turned into a deep, belly-aching laugh. When he finally regained control, he let himself fall backward and spread his arms in the grass. "You knew about Cameron?" he asked. "About Pop?"

"No," Eames replied, dropping down next to Arthur. "I suspected. I'd guessed you were abused, Arthur, but the degree…" He flicked a glance to where the graveyard and the dead boys had been. "You are amazing," he said.

Arthur turned his face away. "I was just a scared kid, Eames. I survived."

Eames reached down to grip his hand. "Don't downplay yourself, darling."

Arthur glanced back, a small embarrassed grin on his lips. "I was Neil Lacey," he said. "Then Pop took me and I became Cameron Miller." He paused, looking at the grass, digging his fingers into the dirt. "I became Neil Lacey again," he said. "And then I killed him, to become Arthur."

Eames shook his head, bringing his free hand up to gently caress Arthur's face. "You didn't kill Neil," he said. "Or Cameron. They're still in you. I know because of where we are."

Arthur sat up, looking past Eames to the lake. Pop's house was gone; in its place stood a welcoming, warm home and a lake with a couple of boats docked. "Oh," Arthur breathed. He lunged to his feet, pulling Eames with him. "C'mon," he said. "Let's go sailing."

They sailed until the timer ran out.

o0o

The first thing Eames did was look to Arthur: Arthur's eyes were open, he was sitting up, and he was smiling at Eames.

Eames collapsed back down with a relieved sigh, and he said, "Good news, Cobb—you won't die today."

Arthur scoffed. "Mr. Eames, you'd be mistaken if you think I'll let you kill him."

Eames smiled and chuckled. "I'm glad you're awake, darling."

o0o

No one wanted to let Arthur go anywhere alone. Since Eames had fetched him, he pulled rank and took Arthur back to his hotel.

Eames didn't ask about the dream, about Pop or Cameron or Neil. Instead he ordered room service while Arthur showered and kept up a steady stream of chatter while Arthur ate.

He paused to steal a bite of Arthur's steak and Arthur took a deep breath. He said, "I was seven."

He said, "I told them to do what he wanted and they'd be safe."

He said, "I was Cameron Miller. I'd forgotten all about Neil Lacey."

He said, "I'm tired."

Eames took his hand, kissed his forehead, and murmured, "Arthur, come to bed."

That night, he held Arthur while Arthur trembled, tears on his face. "Hush, love," Eames whispered. "Pop's dead, the house is gone, and I'll always come for you."

Arthur pressed a sleepy kiss to his neck and Eames hummed a lullaby.


End file.
